Brothers of the Buffalo Read online

  Although it seemed like it was years ago, only a few months had passed since that day when the chanting Wash had heard was not a death song but one of thanks for gifts of food. This dried-up old Indian had appeared tall and strong then, dressed in his finery as he danced before them. But now he looked a hundred years old. His eyes were clouded. He was on his last legs for sure.

  “What do we do with him?” Josh asked.

  “Can’t take no prisoners now,” Charley said, the laughter gone from his voice. “We need to push on.”

  Charley is right, Wash thought. Even if we were able to get this old man up and onto a horse with one of us, he probably would not survive to the end of the day, starved and dehydrated as he is.

  “We should give him what he sings for,” Johnson said.

  There was no emotion in the scout’s voice. Just a matter-of-fact suggestion that they shoot the poor old man or save a bullet by cutting his throat.

  As one, the scout and Wash’s friends turned to look at Wash.

  And why should I be the one to decide anything?

  The old man was not chanting so loud anymore. Maybe he was listening to the young men converse. Or maybe he was just getting weaker.

  Wash unslung his canteen and dropped it to the ground next to the old man. “Some of his people might just circle back for him,” Wash said.

  Then they moved out.

  Everywhere they went, the ve’hoe soldiers had pursued. So the forty-four chiefs had met. They had sent out word. The best chance for their nation to survive would be to break up into even smaller bands.

  Wolf and his family left Gray Head’s camp circle. They joined with his old friend White Horse, the Dog Soldier chief, and his six lodges.

  “We will go to Palo Duro,” White Horse said. “Mamanti said it would be safe. I trust him.”

  And so that is where they went.

  Perhaps we will be safe here, Wolf thought.

  He looked around again at his new surroundings. The great canyon, with its sheer stone walls, was in the middle of the Staked Plains. No one could find their way across that vast plateau without following the marker sticks stuck into the earth. And the canyon was invisible until one came close. Surely no one would find it without a guide.

  He turned to look back at the way they had come into the Palo Duro. It was a narrow trail winding down among great stones. The only other way in—or out—was an even narrower trail at the other end. Within the wide canyon there was good grass for the horses. The river that flowed through had clear, sweet water. The trees that grew within the canyon were tall and straight, perfect for lodge poles. There was lots of firewood. The hunters of the various nations sheltered there had found no buffalo on the surrounding plain. But there were many deer and antelope nearby. The people were well fed.

  I like this place, Wolf thought.

  He liked Mamanti, too. The Kiowa medicine man was both a brave leader and a modest but accurate prophet. Unlike like Coyote Dung, the things Mamanti said always seemed to come true. He carried a sacred stuffed owl with him everywhere. It spoke and gave him good advice.

  As Wolf walked past, Mamanti nodded to him. Wolf took this walk from one end of the Palo Duro to the other every day if it was a day when he did not go out hunting. He hunted only every third or fourth day. He and his family owned only one horse strong enough to use to hunt. His horse, Wind.

  As he walked he thought about what he saw. More than a hundred lodges of the three tribal nations were now living in the Palo Duro. They were in several camps that were strung the length of the canyon along the river like beads on a piece of sinew. Wolf passed the lodges at the lower end of the canyon. The grazing was best near those lodges. The canyon was at its widest. It was space and grass that the Kiowas needed.

  The Kiowas’ horse herd numbered more than a thousand animals. Those Greasy Wood People had the most lodges. Their lodges were the biggest, tall, painted tipis covered with sacred symbols. They possessed many buffalo robes, piles of blankets, many bales of calico, many guns, and much ammunition. They had all sorts of canned food and dry goods. Some of them even had stone china to eat their food on. Their possessions had come from many successful raids. They were wealthy people.

  Next to them, in the middle of the canyon, were the Comanches. Those Snake People were not as rich as the Kiowas. Still, they had fine lodges and several hundred horses. Their lodges, too, were full of goods. Again, just as Mamanti and others of the Kiowas had done, Comanche men nodded to Wolf as he walked past. They looked a little amused. They did not look worried. They did not wander back and forth as he did, worrying.

  They were not Cheyennes.

  Wolf had come now to the narrowest part of the great Palo Duro. He had come to the place where the Cheynnes were camped.

  Only twenty lodges of our people.

  They were led by White Horse and Iron Shirt. All but a few of the Cheyenne horses were gone, some of them stolen by white thieves, others eaten when food ran out. Some had been run to death as they fled the ve’hoe soldiers. The Cheyennes had only the horses they rode in upon and a few pack mules. They had almost no possessions.

  Wolf stopped when he came to their small lodge. Wind lifted his head as Wolf came close to pat his neck. Behind him their other animal grazed. It was a small, scrawny mule. Wolf counted up their possessions in his head.

  One cooking pan, one wooden bowl, two spoons, three knives, my gun and one bandolier of ammunition, my bow and arrows, and the clothing we are wearing.

  His mother smiled at him. He had not said a word yet. Still, what she spoke was in answer to his thoughts.

  “The more people have,” she said, “the more those people have to lose.”

  Then she bent back to her task of scraping an antelope skin.

  Wolf sat down next to her.

  “What is the news?” she asked.

  “Scouts say that Three Fingers and his troops are nearby.”

  Three Fingers. That was the name the Kiowas had given the ve’hoe chief called Colonel Ranald Mackenzie by his own people. He had lost two fingers during the big war the white men fought against each other.

  “How near?”

  “A day’s ride from here. Some of the Snakes and the Greasy Wood People had a little fight with him. Then they rode off. They left the ve’hoe soldiers behind. They say no one followed them. They say those white men are too blind to find the Palo Duro.”

  “Ah,” his mother said. She bent back to the task of flensing the hide of the antelope he had shot with an arrow the day before. Some of its meat was cooking over their fire. Then she looked up at Wolf.

  “What do you think, my son?”

  Wolf reached into his pouch. He pulled out the little figure he had made of dark wood. It was a perfect figure of a buffalo calf. He had thought to give it to his little sister when he finished. But for some reason he had kept it. He sighed.

  “I am not so sure. The ones who scout for them—they are not white men. They are Seminole negroes. They are the best scouts the ve’hoes have. Even better than the Tonkawas. Almost as good as our own Wolves.”

  It was still early in the day. Wolf climbed to the top of a big rock. It was far below the canyon rim but still high above their lodge. Wolf sat down where the first rays of the sun were just beginning to touch the flat place on top of the rock. It was peaceful. A wren perched on the branch of a mountain juniper near Wolf’s head. It opened its throat to greet the new day with song. Then it stopped. It cocked its head. It fluttered away as quickly as the thought that came to Wolf.

  It heard what I heard.

  It was a noise like the sudden breaking of a dry branch, a cracking sound. It came from the direction of the Kiowa camp at the mouth of the canyon. He recognized that sound. Not a branch. A gunshot. He stood and cupped his ears to hear better.

  Maybe there is nothing to fear. There are deer in that part of the canyon mouth. Maybe a Kiowa hunter shot one.

  Then the noise came again. And again. Wolf’s hea
rt began to pound. His breath came fast. He ran headlong down from the rock to their lodge. He needed to warn his family. He needed to tell them to run.

  But his mother had heard the shots. She and his sister were already packing.

  “Eat this,” she said, handing him the wooden bowl. It held some of the antelope that had been cooking. Wolf ate. He knew that he could not be sure when he would eat again. She had already packed away the rest of the antelope meat and the metal cooking pan and the spoons. Her face showed no emotion, but her voice was tense.

  His mother and sister began to take down and roll up the lodge skins that covered their home. As they did so, Wolf tied their few belongings onto the pack mule, fastened the travois. His mother and sister left the lodge poles standing. One could always cut new lodge poles. One could not cut a new life. All around them, other Cheyenne women were doing the same.

  They moved quickly, but not frantically. If the attack was coming from the other end of the Palo Duro, they would be safe for a little while. The distance and the resistance of the Greasy Wood warriors would protect them. The gunfire coming from the direction of Kiowa camp was now steady. It was the sounds of full battle. The cracking of hundreds of rifle shots echoed off the rock walls. Wolf also heard shouting. He heard the distant screams of Greasy Wood women and children.

  Wolf vaulted onto Wind’s back and looked around. Other Cheyenne men were also mounted. One of them was White Horse. Wolf caught his eye and pointed with his chin toward the lower end of the canyon. Toward the sounds of fighting.

  Should we ride to the fight?

  White Horse shook his head. He nodded toward the trail that led in the opposite direction—out of the narrow upper end of the Palo Duro.

  “We follow them,” White Horse said.

  Wolf understood. It was more important to make sure those women and children were safe. His mother and sister were already on the trail. They had joined a stream of other Cheyenne women and children and their pack animals. All were silently making their way out of the canyon that had become a death trap.

  White Horse and half a dozen men rode past the women. They would go first on the trail and would make sure no enemies waited at the trail’s end out of the Palo Duro.

  Wolf joined the other men who covered the retreat. They walked their horses backward, holding their guns and bows and arrows ready. The trail was narrow and long. The retreat was slow. They could hear the fight in the canyon below as they climbed. Wolf listened nervously for the sound of gunfire ahead. But there was only the sound of the feet of the people and their animals scrambling up the trail.

  The sun was high when they reached the canyon rim. White Horse and his Dog Soldiers were there. They nodded to Wolf. They had found no enemies waiting for them. The ve’hoe soldiers were all at the other end.

  The canyon was filled with the sounds of battle. Smoke rose from below them in the middle of the Palo Duro. The white soldiers were still being slowed by the Greasy Wood warriors. Wolf could hear other people coming up the trail now. He heard voices speaking Comanche. It was the women and children of that tribe escaping by that same trail.

  Four days passed. The Palo Duro was now far behind them. The canyon floor had been covered with the shells of countless bullets, but the only ones who lost their lives were three brave Kiowa men. No Cheyenne or Comanche had been killed or even wounded. The fierce resistance put up by the Greasy Wood warriors had held back the soldiers long enough for everyone else to escape unharmed.

  But the Cheyennes’ allies had suffered greatly in other ways. They had had to leave behind all of their lodges and most of their possessions. The Kiowas’ and Comanches’ big herds of horses and mules had been captured. The Greasy Wood People had gone from wealth to poverty in less time than it took the sun to rise to the middle of the sky. The wives of the Tonkawa scouts had been allowed to rummage through and take whatever they wanted. Then Three Fingers had ordered the burning of the lodges and possessions left behind. The soldiers took a few hundred of the best horses and killed the rest of the herd. More than a thousand innocent animals were slaughtered by the pitiless guns of the ve’hoes.

  And, once again, the allies scattered. The Cheyennes went north. Mamanti and his Kiowas went west while the Comanches went south. All that anyone hoped to do was survive.

  Noaha-vose is the Sacred Mountain,

  the place of origin for all the sacred power.

  Many call it Bear Butte, for its shape is that

  of a great sleeping grizzly bear.

  Noaha-vose is the place of origin

  for all the sacred power that Maheo pours out

  upon the People and their world.

  It was there inside the Sacred Mountain

  the All-Father first revealed himself

  to Sweet Medicine.

  It was there that Maheo gave the Sacred Arrows,

  Maahotse, to Sweet Medicine.

  It is from Noaha-vose that holy power

  streams in an endless flow, power that blesses

  and renews the People whenever they fast

  or pray upon its slopes.

  The People know that Noaha-vose

  is the most holy place upon this earth.

  HOOFPRINTS

  Wolf breathed in the clean scent of late autumn sage crushed under the horse’s feet. The sweet voice of a meadowlark came from somewhere in the bushes along the small creek. The hoofprints led upstream. He followed them quietly.

  War was still all around them. Any bluecoat soldier who saw him would not hesitate to shoot. The only Indians not being attacked were those who had come in to the agencies and turned in their weapons. There they were safe from bullets. And just as safe to starve on the poor rations provided to them.

  After the flight from Palo Duro, Wolf and his mother and sister had found their way back to Gray Head’s camp circle.

  “Grandchild,” Gray Head had said, embracing Wolf as he got down off Wind’s back. “I feared you had not survived.”

  There were tears in his eyes as he looked at Wolf.

  I had not realized how much he cares for us. Perhaps it is because we have survived so many terrible things together.

  “The army is angry,” Gray Head had said. “It is very angry. It is like a big dog whose meat has been snatched from its mouth. I think it would not be wise for us to go in now to the agency. Maybe if we take care, if we do nothing to hurt anyone, the army will leave us alone. Maybe we can still remain free.”

  Wolf had nodded at his words. They were words that Gray Head had spoken before. But in his heart, Wolf feared that peace would not be easy to find. The hope that the ve’hoes would to leave them alone was a thin one.

  Whatever happens, Wolf had thought, I will take care of my family.

  The attack on Gray Head’s camp had come four days later. Again, they had to run. The ve’hoe soldiers were so angry. After months of trying to catch the Cheyennes, those angry white men probably would not let them surrender. Even if they put down their weapons and raised their hands, they might be shot.

  Wolf had not taken flight right away as many did. As the big wagons with guns firing from them rumbled toward them, he had made sure his mother and sister were on their way to safety.

  He had also stayed back to do another thing.

  The two little white children had still been with Gray Head’s camp. Though Stone Calf’s niece and her husband had been caring for them and had done their best to be kind to them, those sad little ones were not well. They were weak. Stone Calf’s niece had fed them as well as she could. But there was almost nothing to eat for anyone. It had become clear to everyone that the two little girls might not survive.

  So as the wagon guns rolled toward them, Wolf went to the lodge of Stone Calf’s niece and her husband. Gray Head, always calm in the face of danger, was already there.

  “Uncle,” Wolf had said. “Is it time for us to try again to give them back?”

  “Hee’he’e,” Gray Head agreed. “That is my thoug
ht. Maybe this time the ve’hoe soldiers will not be blind.”

  He paused then. There was a great sorrow in his eyes. His gaze seemed as sad as that of a man seeing his own death. Then the moment passed.

  “Hurry!” Gray Head said. He pulled out his only blanket. It was a fine wool one given to him by the agent when they were at peace.

  Stone Calf’s niece hugged each of the little girls and pressed his cheek to theirs. Then she let her husband pull her away. They mounted their horses and rode away.

  Wolf picked up one of the little girls. She was as light as a bird, all skin and bones. The other little girl held up her arms to Gray Head. He lifted her into his embrace. Then they ran, carrying the little girls. They ran to the lodge edge of the camp circle farthest from the attack. There they would be safer from guns.

  Gray Head spread out his blanket in front of the lodge. They sat the two little girls down on it.

  You stay here, Wolf signed to them. Wait. Your people come.

  Choo-lee, the bigger one, nodded her understanding. The littler one, Ah-dleyt, just clutched a doll to her thin chest. That doll had been Wolf sister’s before she gave it to the little white girl.

  Wolf mounted Wind. He galloped hard, leaving the sound of gunfire behind. He soon caught up with his mother and sister. Knowing that the army would be in pursuit, his clever mother had split off from the main group of fleeing people. She was leading the pack mule down into the shelter of a small grove below a hill. It was a good place to hide. In the distance Wolf could see one group of ve’hoe soldiers chasing the rest of the people off toward the north.